


Corruptor

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Lost Prince - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Obviously, you've corrupted me," Marco had said more than once to him in bed, all ropes untied and all fires spent.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corruptor

Before the end of his thirties, every hair on the Rat's head had turned from brown to grey.

It displeased him. Moreover, he was displeased that it displeased him. It wasn't as though he'd ever been anything to look at, and he'd only ever laughed to himself at the strutting, long-mustachioed peacocks who made up a good portion of the officer corps in the Samavian Army. Why the sudden wounded vanity, now?

"Maybe I'll rinse it with henna," he'd said, once, only half-joking, while alone with Marco in his study.

Marco had looked up from his paperwork, and his expression had changed within seconds from surprised to disapproving to appreciative.

"Leave it as it is," he'd replied, the pitch of his voice plummeting. "I rather like having a distinguished-looking commander under me. In all senses of the phrase."

"Easy for you to say. You're the same age and you've not a dozen strands of grey yet."

The Rat had had to force his tone into one of grumbling complaint. They'd had too much to get done. If he had let Marco know that His Majesty's words had turned his body to liquid and fire, like kerosene in a lamp, they'd have accomplished nothing more the rest of the day or evening and would have had to pick up the damned thread again in the morning.

 _And there's another sign I'm growing old,_ he'd thought later. Ten, even five years before, he'd have said to Hell with their work and tried to coax Marco into locking the study door, then pulling him down to the thick Persian carpets and fucking him witless.

 _Who'll know?_ he'd murmured on one such occasion, slipping his fingers under Marco's shirt and tracing them lightly over the spot where Marco's neck joined his shoulder. Marco had tilted his head back and closed his eyes, but he might just have resisted, might have pled work and duty, until the Rat had whispered, _It's not as though I'd be walking straight afterward anyway._ That had done the trick; Marco's dark eyes, when they opened, had been even darker, and he'd launched himself at the Rat with something very much like a growl.

When had he himself become so dully dutiful? And when had Stefan Loristan's son, with the responsibility for an entire country on his shoulders, acquired that streak of devilment and that willingness to seize the moment for pleasure?

"Obviously, you've corrupted me," Marco had said more than once to him in bed, all ropes untied and all fires spent. The Rat would usually grin with a smug, lazy pride. But not the time Marco brushed his lips against the throat of his aide-de-camp and whispered, "And, oh, I thank you for it."


End file.
